Hal Ackerman: Stein,stoned

Stein regarded the young man warily. Flattery was flattering, but he was uncomfortable with people knowing more about him than he did about them. And Goodpasture was, apparently, a Stein archivist. He fondly recounted the tales of Stein’s legendary youthful antics; the cannabis “Victory Gardens” he had planted on the grounds of LA police stations, the “Pot-in-every-Chicken” dinners he had perpetrated on the state legislature, and of course the time he had saved the asses of two icons of British rock and roll by taking the kilo of Afghanistani hash that someone had planted in their guitar cases and molding it into a pair of skis that he carried under the noses of the alerted Swiss customs agents at Zermatt.

Stein had to hand it to the kid. He had done his homework. “It wasn’t actually the Liverpool Lads,” Stein confessed. “But it tells better that way.” A display of Santa’s sleigh pulled by eight flying smog deer hung over Wilshire Boulevard, tethered on either side to palm trees. Russian hookers pressed their noses against the windows of Cartier and Armani showrooms. “Beverly Hills Christmas dreams,” Goodpasture said.

Stein glanced at the time. “Was there a particular place we were going?”

“I thought anywhere away from the warehouse would be a step up.”

“True that.”

“It just so blows my mind to be driving with you. I feel like Dylan when he met Woody Guthrie.”

“Guthrie was on his deathbed.”

“Well, except for that part.”

“And he told Dylan to go to hell.”

“I hope except for that part too.”

They pulled into the elongated parking ramp that lay parallel to Santa Monica Boulevard and waited for a woman in a Lexus to finish a phone call, a manicure and a cafe latte before vacating the parking place. The eye makeup she could do while driving. Goodpasture shut the engine off and swiveled in his seat to face Stein squarely.

“I lost something valuable. All the people I talk to say you’re the man to help get it back.”

“People?”

“People who know these things.”

“Things?”

“Things agricultural.”

“Ah.”

Stein felt a nostalgic glow for those elliptical conversations you had when you were worried about being bugged by the FBI. “You must have old information,” Stein said. “I don’t know those people anymore.”

“They still know you.”

“If they did, they’d know better than to ask.”

Goodpasture went on discreetly. “I’m aware of your family responsibilities. There’d be absolutely no danger involved. You would not be abrogating any preexisting covenants.”

“What do you know about my preexisting covenants?” Stein felt like his low sperm count had been posted on a billboard.

“No actions deleterious to the well being of the child.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A lot of my clients are attorneys,” Goodpasture confessed. “One of them negotiated your divorce.”

“My lawyer or hers?”

“You didn’t have one.”

Stein was getting ready to pop this kid. Except that he was so damn engaging. “I’m good people, Harry. Sorry. I know you don’t like to be called Harry. But I don’t know you well enough to call you Stein, and Mister Stein sounds so, you know. Dr. Alton Schwimmer will vouch for me.”

Stein took a step back and surveyed the kid intently. Invoking the name of the legendary Alton Schwimmer carried gravitas. Stein had never met the medical vigilante, but you had to admire anyone who had the balls to bring a little dignity to the dying.

“The crop I grew was earmarked for his hospice,” Goodpasture went on. The people who stole it intend to exploit it for commercial purposes. That’s wrong. Don’t you agree?”

Stein gave a cautious, non-verbal yes

“I’m pretty sure I know where to find it. When I do, all I’d want is for you to authenticate that it comes from the same crop as the orchid I gave you.”

“I see. Kind of like an art expert.”

“Exactly! With your reputation your word would be law.” He wrung Stein’s hand. “They all thought you had gotten too old, lost the spark. I told them they were wrong.” He clenched his fist and quoted Stein’s motto that was the ethos of the sixties. “Give ’till it feels good.”

He had gauged Stein’s response incorrectly.

“You make this hard for me. If I had a son who was a dope dealer I’d want him to be exactly like you. But I have to say no.”

Goodpasture persisted with restraint. “Once again, you have my complete assurance that this will be purely an insulated, isolated occurrence.”

Stein nodded toward the digital clock on the dash. “You said twenty minutes. Are you a man of your word?”

Goodpasture accepted disappointment with grace. They drove back to the warehouse in not unpleasant silence, and arrived on the stroke of the twentieth minute. Stein handed back the check as he got out of the car. Goodpasture refused to take it. “The deal was your time, not your agreement.”

Stein appreciated the gesture. He liked the kid. “It would be interesting to see what happened if I tried to cash it.”

“You’d see I’m a man of my word.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

It was deliciously tempting. He again tried to return the check. Again Goodpasture refused.

“When I’m old I’ll be able to tell my grandkids that Harry Stein is walking around with an uncashed check of mine.”

“I’m sure they’ll be impressed. You better take this, too.” Stein handed the bud back to him through the driver’s side window, still in its plastic seal.

“You didn’t open it?”

The next motion happened more quickly than the eye could register. Goodpasture tore open the plastic seal and brought the bud up under Stein’s nose. “Tell me what you smell,” he exhorted. “Tell me its life story.”

It was reflex. Stein inhaled deeply and the genetic secrets of Goodpasture’s orchid manifested to him. “Humboldt Super Skunk on the maternal side. Crossed with Shiva Shanti. Grown in a hydroponic mixture of nitrates and organic phosphorus.”

“I grew them from heirloom seeds of your Heavenly Hillary,” Goodpasture exulted. “Then cloned them. These are your grandchildren!” He pushed the bud back into Stein’s hand and hit the accelerator.

Stein ran a few steps after him in pursuit. “What am I going to do with this?”

“You’ll think of something,” Goodpasture sang back. As if they had been friends for years. As if he knew they were already partners. “Happy Birthday.”

Naturally, Morty Greene lived way the hell on the other side of town, in Silverlake. There must be a rule that wherever you are in Los Angeles you’re always as far away as possible from the next place you have to be.

He resented freeways and had a low opinion of people who used them. It was like wearing a suit or following a recipe. It existed before you existed. You did nothing but blindly follow a predetermined path. He liked to imagine he was letting the winds take him. He drove east on Pico, past the still unreclaimed buildings that were burned out during the ‘93 riots, their orange and black steel torsos looking like a junkie’s bad teeth. He turned north on La Cienega, underneath the freeway overpass that came down in the ‘94 earthquake, then east again through Koreatown where another huge sinkhole had caved in under a street where they were trying to dig a tunnel for a subway.

Only in Los Angeles would it seem like a good idea to send electrically powered trains carrying thousands of people through tunnels spanning earthquake faults that were marbled with pockets of flammable methane. It’s Pompeii, Stein thought. Years from now, school kids will gawk at the site where the “City of Angels” once had been and they’ll ask their teachers, Why did they stay? Didn’t they have enough warning? Were they just stupid?